


Play Me, I’m Yours

by onlyastoryteller



Category: Call Me By Your Name (2017) RPF
Genre: Fluff, M/M, Musicians, Public Art
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-10
Updated: 2021-01-10
Packaged: 2021-03-14 21:21:55
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 904
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28677345
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/onlyastoryteller/pseuds/onlyastoryteller
Summary: A public art installation is music to the ears.
Relationships: Timothée Chalamet/Armie Hammer
Comments: 32
Kudos: 165





	Play Me, I’m Yours

**Author's Note:**

> I needed fluff today, so I wrote some. ❤️
> 
> 100% fiction, of course.

It was an arts campaign. 

The city arts council had decided to enroll in a national program that would place pianos in public spaces and hire local artists to paint them. It was intended to increase community spirit and bring joy and spontaneity to areas where city dwellers were used to minding their own business and scurrying about with their heads down to get from point A to point B. 

In addition to being painted in colorful designs, each piano was adorned with a sign that said, “Play Me, I’m Yours.”

Timmy snickered about this every time he walked by. Whose idea were those signs? Did they come up with the wording on purpose with the intention of the double entendre, or was it earnest?

He mostly ignored the pianos. Sometimes they were occupied with people with talent and he’d shoot a smile in their direction as he strode by. Other times a child sat at a bench plunking out “Chopsticks” or “Little Mary Had a Lamb,” and he’d roll his eyes at the cuteness and keep going. 

He could play a little, sure. He’d taken lessons his entire childhood, until he hit high school and suddenly decided it was cooler to play the guitar. But he wasn’t really about to test whether he remembered how to play in the middle of a public place like that. He was confident, but not _that_ confident. 

One afternoon, however, as he hurried out of the Davis Square station on the way home from work, his feet automatically slowed on the uneven brick walkway. The purple and pink-striped piano in the square was occupied by a tall man, his legs barely managing to fold underneath it as he played. It was a song Timmy hadn’t heard in years, but had once listened to on repeat while alone in the dark as a lonely kid. Hearing it now set up an ache in his chest, a memory of past pain coupled with an appreciation of beauty.

Despite his earlier hurry, Timmy came to a stop. He watched the man’s large hands span the keys, his blonde head nodding in rhythm and his Birkenstocked feet pumping the pedals. Timmy began to hum along under his breath, then softly sing the lyrics. 

Someone standing next to him — and older woman with her salt and pepper hair pulled into a bun — smiled. “Sing louder,” she said softly. 

He blushed and shook his head. 

“Please,” she said. “This was my son’s favorite song. His favorite artist.”

Something in her voice and eyes told him that she was serious, and that this meant something to her. 

He took a deep breath and sang the chorus, louder so she could hear him. She nodded and then nudged him towards the piano. He resisted for a moment longer, but then the man turned and looked straight at him. 

Timmy’s voice faltered as the blue eyes seemed to look into his very soul, striking a chord that was richer and louder than anything created by the hammers and strings of the tiger-striped instrument in front of him. 

The man smiled suddenly, a grin that was the sun itself. He scooted a few inches to the right and glanced down at the space on the seat beside him, then up at Timmy again, his brows raising in question. 

_Oh, what the hell,_ Timmy thought. 

He stepped forward and slid onto the painted bench beside the beautiful man with the kind face, ignoring the way it creaked under his added weight. 

The man began the second verse, and Timmy lifted his voice, singing out to match the tones of the instrument. The crowd around them grew, but Timmy was focused on the way the man’s fingers flew over the keys and the way he’d look over at Timmy encouragingly every few lines. 

He sang, not missing a single word or inflection, pulling the memory of the song out of his heart as though he’d trained for this very moment way back then, when he was an angsty teen who didn’t quite fit in and took solace in his music. 

The man leaned a shoulder against his as he played. Timmy didn’t know if it was an accident or if he could hear the thoughts in Timmy’s head. Whichever it was, he suddenly felt — for perhaps the first time ever — that he truly wasn’t alone. 

At the end of the song, there was a wave of applause around them. The man twisted towards Timmy, his right hand outstretched. 

“Hi,” he said. “I’m Armie. You’ve got a gorgeous voice.”

“Timmy,” said Timmy, allowing Armie to shake his hand. “You’ve got a way with the ivories.”

“Do you know anything else of theirs?” Armie asked. “Shall we do an encore?”

“I know them all,” Timmy said without hesitation, wanting to prolong the moment. “Pick any song from their catalogue.”

Armie’s smile widened. “You have really nice eyes,” he said softly. “They sparkle like honey in the sun.”

Timmy flushed. “I...thank you.”

“Hmmm. Okay.” Armie cleared his throat. “Let’s do a couple more, and then...can I buy you a drink? Or is that...am I being too forward?”

Timmy shook his head. “No. I mean, yes, let’s get a drink. You’re not being too forward.” He glanced at the sign perched atop the piano, and grinned. 

_Play me, I’m yours_ , he thought, knowing without a doubt that it was true. 

**Author's Note:**

> The “Play Me, I’m Yours” campaign is a real public art installation that was placed in a number of cities around the world for the past decade or so. Google it, it’s adorable.


End file.
